


Close Encounter of the Third Kind

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-28
Updated: 2006-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-10 16:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11130210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: When the search for the Hand of Franklin ends, a heartbroken Ray Kowalski returns home.





	Close Encounter of the Third Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Close Encounter of the Third Kind

## Close Encounter of the Third Kind

  
by Marcella Polman  


Disclaimer: This is not an original story. The characters starring belong to a bunch of people who have my eternal gratitude.   


Story Notes: To my standards, this is a very lengthy fic. There are two reasons for this. First, I love Turnbull, and in my opinion, there is no such thing as too many words devoted to his character. (I love Kowalski too, as the identical twin brother he is to me.) Secondly, despite my love for Turnbull (and the fun it is to write less obvious pairings) I think that BF/RK is DS's OTP. So I felt I had to provide an explanation as to why Fraser/Kowalski in this particular universe wasn't possible. I had two options: Death and Heterosexuality (two equally sad phenomena in fanfiction). I killed Fraser once before (in order to write a double Ray fic) and I had no desire to repeat the experience. So I chose the other option and I made Fraser straight. Obviously, I needed some words to a) make this believable (because, to be honest, I don't think Fraser being straight is very likely at all) and b) have Kowalski come to terms with it. Anyway, I hope I did a plausible job.   
***   
Warnings: 1) As everybody knows, Turnbull was run over by his campaign bus, so I had to write some medical details. As I'm not a doctor, said details might be medical rubbish. Apologies. 2) Ray does a lot of swearing in this fic. The story's events give him plenty of reason to swear. (The story's rating is mainly based on the language Ray uses; sex-wise this is a very chaste fic, sorry. It is very much a slashfic, though, I can promise you that).   


* * *

_1\. Love is a bitch_  
  
Ray was angry. He was angry, and angry was what he wanted to be. He was desperately holding on to the feeling, hating what was lying ahead. He knew he couldn't be mad for very much longer - he had been mad the entire trip back, and now he was tired and icy fingers were tearing at the seams that barely held him together.   
  
Oh, goddammit, Fraser.   
  
The apartment was cold and dusty and smelling of loneliness (yeah, sure, Ray). The fridge was empty, so apparently the message he sent four months ago had reached Mrs. Blackstock.   
  
He walked around a little, restless, sort of saying hello to the rooms. It felt uncannily like the time when he had first moved in here, two years ago. Only the reason had been different then.   
  
No, it hadn't. Right now, he had to start all over again, just like two years ago. The situation was exactly the same, only the person that had caused it differed.  
  
He felt a distinct rip inside at this, but he didn't give in. Avoiding was not an option, but delaying was something at least.  
  
Switching on the TV after plugging it in was a mistake. It wasn't the program (he didn't even realize what was on) it was the sound and the moving images, the sitting on the couch that did it. There was no wolf sitting next to him with his head tilted a little, apparently mesmerized by whatever it was he was watching - and there never would be again. There was no one sitting on his other side. Never again would he discuss hockey, or curling, or movies with F-  
  
The icy fingers gripped his gut, causing him to bend over and curl up on the couch.  
  
Hot tears burnt his eyes and cheeks. He let them take over, just riding the waves. It hurt, but he didn't resist, knowing from experience that if he waited it out, the crying would calm him down and ease his pain a little for a couple of hours.   
  
When he came to himself, the couch was drenched where his face had been. He let out a slow breath and managed to think wryly that the start had been made and that from here, there were only 99 buckets of tears to go.  
  
***  
  
"No, Ray." The bearded cheek had been pulled away from his lips immediately, and Fraser had gone all stiff (and not in a good way). "Go to sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."   
  
Ray _had_ gone to sleep eventually. Which was a real miracle because it had been pitch dark and freezing cold in the Northwest Territories (there was no reason anymore now to annoy a certain someone by calling them Areas), and he had been lying in a tent in a double sleeping bag, unable to go anywhere or do anything, trapped in the arms of the man who had just rejected him.  
  
In the morning, Fraser had explained to him that their feelings weren't mutual. Ray hadn't been willing to believe him at first. Going on a search for the Hand of Franklin together had been Fraser's idea, not his. Why would Fraser have suggested it if he wasn't...if he didn't...  
  
He had asked about it. Fraser had been silent for a while. "I suppose that it was an attempt on my part to delay saying goodbye to you," he had said, adding a sharp, "No, Ray, don't" to the words, and killing the hope that had flared in Ray for a moment.  
  
"Then why did you ask me?" he had said.  
  
Again after careful consideration, Fraser had replied, "Ray, I can't think of a way to explain myself without hurting you. I do love you, and I will miss you when you go back to Chicago." ("When", not "if", Ray had registered.) "There just is no physical desire involved on my part."   
  
Ray had still been convinced that it was a lie. No, not a lie, Fraser never lied, but an untruth.  
  
"You're afraid of it, aren't you?" he had said. "You're afraid of passion, afraid that it'll make you feel too much, that it'll cause you to lose control."  
  
Fraser hadn't needed to think about a reply this time. "Yes," he had instantly said. "Yes, I most certainly am. Ray, don't you see that I have every reason to fear passion? I have only experienced it once in my life, and it rendered me an utterly immoral man. I would have done anything to..." He had stopped, and the vehemence in his tone was gone when he said, "I was lucky that Ray Vecchio shot me."  
  
Ray cringed. He knew what Fraser was referring to. Even though they had never discussed it, and even though the official report had asked a lot of Ray's ability to read between the lines, it was abundantly clear to him what the Metcalf bitch had done to Fraser.  
  
He had felt torn between hope and despair when he said, "Not everybody is like Victoria, Fraser."  
  
"Yes, I _know_ that," Fraser had replied. "Most people are not criminals with a talent to manipulate and a desire to inflict pain on others. But Victoria is the only person for whom I had feelings so strong I couldn't control them. It was delightful, and it was terrifying. With her, I wasn't myself."   
  
Ray had winced at the look on Fraser's face as it had expressed the delight and the terror Victoria's memory brought about.  
  
"Fraser..."  
  
"No, Ray. Don't you understand what that means? Apparently, passion can only be invoked in me by danger and deviousness, by death even. It's not a feeling I must seek again."  
  
It was wrong. The idea of Fraser willingly choosing a celibate life because he was afraid of passion was truly depressing.  
  
"You can't do this, Fraser. You can't tell yourself not to feel," Ray said.  
  
Fraser threw him a look. If it had been coming from Ray, it would have meant "Wanna bet?" and if Ray hadn't felt so miserable, it probably would have made him chuckle.  
  
"It's not that I don't feel attracted to other people on occasion," Fraser said. "Inspector Thatcher, Janet Morse, Denny Scarpa, even my own sister in a way - I have felt drawn to them. But those feelings were very bleak in comparison to what I felt for Victoria." He looked up. "And they involved only women, Ray."   
  
This was true, Ray realized. Fraser had never shown any specific interest in other men. Ray had thought this was because Fraser was interested in _him_. There had been glances, and touches, and tones, and smiles that had made him feel hopeful. When Fraser had asked him to go on the search for the Hand of Franklin after they got Muldoon, he had been sure that Fraser felt the same. That at some point Fraser would tell him he loved him.  
  
Ray had waited four frigging months. He had thought it were Fraser's nerves that the Mountie never said anything about being in love. He had been wrong all the time. His hunches had let him down once again, just as they had with Stella, when they'd told him that if he tried hard enough his marriage could be saved. When it came to love, his hunched didn't know shit.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser said. "I love you, but I don't desire you. I think it would be best if you went home as soon as possible."  
  
At Ray's departure, there had been no touch, no hug, not even a handshake. Fraser had straightened his back and said, in a perfectly flat tone, "Goodbye, Ray."   
  
He had turned and left immediately, leaving Ray to hate him more than he had ever hated Marcus Ellery.  
  
_2\. Woe is Ray, they say_  
  
Ray felt completely transparent under Welsh's glare. It wasn't a good feeling.  
  
"I find that welcoming you back on the force doesn't please me as much as it should," the lieutenant said. "I take it that things up North didn't work out the way you wanted them to."   
  
"They didn't, sir," Ray said. He had to wrench the words out.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ray." Welsh's voice sounded sincere.   
  
Ray wasn't planning to fall apart in front of the lieu, though. "I don't need your pity, sir," he said.  
  
Welsh got the hint. He immediately slipped back into efficient and harsh lieutenant mode. "Right. If you decide to be back, there's some paperwork to do, of course, but it won't be anything too tedious. You can partner with Carol Brady. She's with Lyndon and Greer now, but I'm sure you'll get a chance to meet her today."  
  
Ray blinked. He had never heard any of those names, and he was sure Walt Disney hadn't either.  
  
"There have been a lot of changes," Welsh explained. "Huey and Dewey resigned from the force. They started a comedy club. Your first guess about its success would be the correct one."  
  
"What else has happened?" Ray asked.  
  
The lieutenant looked uncomfortable. "Well, your ex-wife...uh, Attorney Kowalski and Detective Vecchio got married and moved to Florida."  
  
Ray laughed. Stella and Vecchio being married didn't take his mind off Fraser for even a second, but the idea was just too ridiculous not to cause laughter.  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"Uh, yeah, it's about Frannie," Welsh said. "But she'd better tell you herself."  
  
Frannie turned out to be pregnant. With triplets.  
  
"Who's the father?" Ray asked.  
  
It was an impolite question; he knew that. If Fraser had been here, he'd have uttered a shocked "Ray!" Ray could hear him say it.  
  
Oh, god _dammit_.  
  
Frannie shrugged. "It doesn't matter, does it? They'll be _my_ babies."  
  
"Uh, sure," Ray agreed.  
  
"I'm sorry you're back," she said, changing the subject. She didn't mean it to sound the way it did, and Ray knew it.  
  
"Yeah, me too."  
  
"We need to catch up," she said. "We can't talk here. Why don't you drop by tonight? At eight."  
  
Ray wanted to say no. He didn't want to drop by at the Vecchio House - he had never been to the Vecchio House without Fraser - and he certainly didn't want to talk. But of course, Frannie wouldn't take no for an answer.  
  
Ray did some paperwork, read a few case files, and met Carol Brady. She was a woman of about fifty who looked a little like his mother when she was younger.   
  
"I hear you're going through some rough times," she said. "If you ever feel the need to talk, don't hesitate. I'm also divorced."  
  
Like that made her an expert on heartache.   
  
Jeez. Why didn't anybody get it. That Ray. Didn't. Want. To talk. About it?!  
  
_3\. Amazing Frannie_   
  
Frannie was happy. In six months time - probably sooner - she'd be mother of three, and she was obviously very much looking forward to it.   
  
"How will you cope with three babies?" Ray asked.  
  
"Oh, I'll have plenty of help," Frannie said. "There's Ma, and Maria, and Tony. The kids will have different role models to choose from." She smiled. "Although Tony isn't much of a male role model, of course. Maybe you could drop by occasionally to make up for that."   
  
"When did you decide that you wanted to be a mother?" Ray asked.  
  
"The morning after you and Fraser went to Canada to catch Muldoon," Frannie said instantly.   
  
Ray blinked in confusion.  
  
"I had been so patient, you know," she explained. "I had been waiting four fucking years for him to finally see me as the woman he wanted to share his life with. I had tried about everything to make him notice me. And then Ray was shot, and he was in the hospital, and there was a lot of stress and a lot of emotions; and it is commonly known that in times of stress people tend to be more open about how they feel."  
  
Ray wasn't sure how "commonly known" this was, but he nodded to make Frannie continue.  
  
"I had asked him earlier to tell me how he felt about me, but he didn't respond at that time. In the hospital, outside Ray's room, he tried to answer the question."  
  
"He told you he liked you," Ray said.  
  
"No, he didn't. You said it for him, Ray. Don't you remember? Even at a time like that, Fraser couldn't say it himself."  
  
Ray swallowed. Before Fraser's name had been mentioned like this, the conversation had been easier. Even though he hated the Mountie, he didn't like to hear about his flaws.  
  
"That moment I knew it was no use," Frannie continued. "I knew he would never tell me he loved me."  
  
Ray clenched his jaw at the memories these words brought about and swallowed again. Sometimes it bloody hurt when people said they loved you.  
  
"So I went home, and I cried all night over the tremendous loss I had suffered, even if it wasn't a real loss but just an idea," Frannie was saying. "I slept in late the next morning, and when I woke the sun was shining, and I realized that Fraser wasn't all my life was about."  
  
She looked at him. "I don't mean to say that I suddenly decided that I hadn't been in love with him for four years, or that he wasn't the most wonderful man I had ever met. I just realized that one of the reasons I had been after him was his sperm."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"I realized that one of the reasons I had been after him was that I wanted to have his babies."  
  
"Your babies aren't Fraser's," Ray said. He knew they weren't. It was ridiculous to feel so upset about the idea.  
  
Frannie smiled. "No, they aren't. They are someone else's. When I woke up that morning, I realized that I really wanted to have children, and that if I couldn't have Fraser's, I needed to find another solution."  
  
"What solution?"  
  
"Sperm bank. Unknown donor," Frannie said curtly. "Ma's not pleased about the fatherless thing, but that's just stupid. I grew up without a father, and I turned out fine."  
  
Ray couldn't bring himself to make a sound of agreement. Frannie had overcome her feelings for Fraser and she was happy now. Ray didn't understand how this was possible. He wasn't sure he thought that it was right.   
  
"Ray." Frannie's tone was one of concern. "What happened up North?"  
  
He was too weak to resist the soft look in her eyes. Some of the pain needed out.  
  
"He said that he loved me, but that he didn't want me. And then he sent me home."  
  
God, he was on the verge of tears now. He didn't want that.  
  
"If he hadn't been so fucked up by that bitch, then he wouldn't have been so shit scared of love, of _feeling_ -"   
  
"Ray," Frannie interrupted, "please, don't blame Victoria."   
  
He realized he had been talking about something that was supposed to be a secret. And that Frannie knew about it anyway.  
  
"A brother has no secrets for his sister," she said, reading his thoughts. "Or a sister knows how to grill her brother, more like." Then she continued, "Victoria Metcalf was a bitch, of course she was, and she's to blame for a lot of things, but not for causing Fraser's fear of feeling. She may have added to it, but I believe it was already there when they met. It was probably the cause of his attraction to her."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You know he was raised by his grandparents from the day his mother died, don't you? They probably meant very well, but they expected him to be an adult from that very day. Not only that, they expected him to have his emotions under perfect control."  
  
Frannie threw him a look that left nothing to guess about what she thought of emotional control (as if Ray didn't know already). "He was _six_ , Ray!"  
  
"So you're saying that it wasn't Victoria who fucked him up, but that his grandparents did the honors."   
  
"Pretty much," Frannie said. "I think they taught him to fear his feelings. In the end, fear was probably the only feeling he recognized. It's easy to imagine that his grandparents taught him to be fearless about everything except feelings." She paused. "He met Victoria under frightening circumstances. She was more dead than alive and he had to put his own life at risk to save her. It's no surprise that he fell in love with her in such an extreme situation."  
  
Ray stared at her. "When did you think of all this?"  
  
"The general idea first came up after Ray shot Fraser when he was about to follow Victoria on that train. Over time I refined my theory." She held his gaze. "I felt that I needed to understand him, you see. I needed to understand him in order to find a way to heal his pain and make him fall in love with me."  
  
Ray swallowed against the lump in his throat.   
  
"I know what you're hoping for, Ray, but you have to let it go. Fraser doesn't want to be healed, and even if he did, and even if you could, there's no guarantee that he'd fall in love with you along the way." Her tone was even softer when she said, "If he said he loved you that's really something, but it doesn't mean you should hope for more."  
  
Ray felt tears running down his face but he didn't try to stop them. Frannie was right - would it hurt so much if she wasn't? - but he didn't feel ready to even start "letting go".  
  
"It'll get better," Frannie said. "You need to give it time. Just promise me you won't try to hold on to it."  
  
"I won't," he replied, unconvinced that that would be enough.  
  
"Good." She smiled. "You're resilient, Ray. You got over Stella too. She doesn't hurt anymore now, does she?"  
  
"She married your brother," Ray said.  
  
Frannie grinned. "Yeah, she did, and it doesn't bother you much, I believe."  
  
"It doesn't," he admitted.  
  
"See?" She seemed to think that was proof enough.   
  
He wanted to believe her. No, correction, _part_ of him wanted to believe her. The other part didn't want to let go of his connection with Fraser, even if it was made of pain. And this was exactly how it had once been with Stella.   
  
It wasn't a good thought.  
  
"You know, Turnbull has had an accident," Frannie said.   
  
Jeez, talking about a change of subject.  
  
"He was running for public office when he was run over by his campaign bus. It hit him hard, resulting in cracked ribs, broken bones, and a fractured skull. But he's tough apparently, because the doctors don't expect any permanent damage."  
  
She gave him a look. "He's still in the hospital. I went there to see him. He seems lonely. You should visit him, Ray. It would take your mind off things."  
  
Ray was about to protest - surely, there were better ways to overcome rejection than visiting _Turnbull_ \- when Ma Vecchio knocked and entered the room.  
  
She seemed just as delighted to see him as she had been when she answered the door. Her eyes shifted repeatedly between him and Frannie. "It's so good to see you, Stanley," she said again, handing him a tray with a cup of coffee and little blocks of chocolate on the side. "No M &M's, I'm afraid, but I'll make sure there will be the next time you come to visit Francesca."  
  
Frannie laughed. "You're a treasure, Ma. Now, if you'd please leave my room, Ray and I were in the middle of a conversation."  
  
Mrs. Vecchio was gone in an instant.   
  
"She would be _so_ happy to have you as a son in law," Frannie said. "And, obviously, as the father of her grandchildren."   
  
_4\. Taking advice_  
  
Hospitals weren't Ray's thing, but he was about to do his second good deed of the day. Fraser would be _so_ proud of him. (God, stop it, Ray!)   
  
He had bonded with Carol earlier. She was his new partner and he'd thought that it would be a good idea to try to get along with her.   
  
It had helped that she apologized for her introduction the day before.  
  
"I meddled," she said. "I tend to do that a lot, and I forget that it isn't always welcome. It hardly ever is, now that I come to think of it. So," she looked at him, "you don't want to talk, you don't want to talk. I can live with that."  
  
Ray wasn't entirely sure. He grinned at her, amazed that it didn't feel terribly fake. "I might want to talk someday, you know. Just not now."  
  
"Right," Carol said briskly. "Either way is fine with me."  
  
Ray had come to know the plus side of Carol's meddling too. When she needed information, she didn't stop asking until she got it. Goons or snitches made no difference to her. He thought he could work with her.  
  
Turnbull's room was full of visitors - of the other patients. One of the curtains around the beds was closed. A nurse opened it.  
  
Turnbull was lying on his back, and his eyes were closed. His face was strangely undamaged, Ray saw to his remarkable relief. There were pins sticking out of the constable's left elbow, but the rest of his body seemed okay.  
  
Ray softly cleared his throat. "Hey, Turnbull, how are you?"  
  
The constable blinked. "Detective Kowalski." His voice sounded weak, but pleasantly surprised. He blinked some more and slowly turned his head. "Did Constable Fraser return to Chicago as well?"  
  
"No." Ray said it louder than he had intended, and more under his breath, he added, "No, he didn't. He's still in Canada."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Detective," Turnbull said, in the tone that had become too bloody familiar to Ray since he'd come back. Why was everybody taking so much pity in him? Didn't they get it that he was already doing a great job at that all by himself?  
  
He spotted some flowers on the nightstand beside the bed. They looked pretty dead. Frannie had probably brought them when she came to visit Turnbull the week before.  
  
Somebody had pinned a lonely "get well soon" card on the wall above Turnbull's head. "From all of us -Toni Blair" it read. It was dated two months ago.  
  
"Who's Toni Blair?" Ray asked.  
  
"My boss. Inspector Thatcher's successor," Turnbull said. "She's very nice."  
  
"'Course." Ray didn't know what to say next, so he repeated the rather lame, "How are you, Turnbull?"  
  
"I'm fine, Detective. In fact, I'll probably be discharged by the end of the week."  
  
"Do you want me to pick you up?"   
  
Jeez, he _was_ in good deeds mode today, wasn't he? Of course, offering to take Turnbull home was the right thing to do, but Ray didn't really want to give the constable a lift. It was sort of a friends thing to do, and he wasn't friends with Turnbull. He didn't even like the constable very much. Turnbull might be a Mountie, but he wasn't like Fraser at all. Most of the time, Turnbull was annoyingly stupid. Who on earth would let himself be run over by his campaign bus?  
  
Ray waited hopefully for the rejection of his offer - after all, it would be the _polite_ thing to turn it down, wouldn't it? - but Turnbull smiled at him. "That is most kind of you, Detective," he said. "I'd be happy to accept a ride home."  
  
_5\. Aftercare_  
  
On Friday noon, Ray drove to the hospital to pick up Turnbull. He met the same nurse who had intercepted him when he had been leaving last Wednesday. She still seemed to think that Turnbull and he meant something to each other. Something professional, or something familial, or - and this was Ray's fear - something romantic.   
  
The day before yesterday, when he was about to leave the hospital room telling himself that it was not a big deal to give Turnbull a lift after the guy would have been discharged (really, no big deal at all) the frigging nurse had come after him.  
  
"Sir, I'd like to share some aftercare information with you, if I may," she said.  
  
Ray had stared at her. _Aftercare?_ Oh, no. It was one thing to give Turnbull a lift home, but it was something entirely different to take care of him. Something Ray didn't want to do. He did not - repeat _not_ \- care for Turnbull.  
  
The nurse got his shocked expression completely wrong. "Don't you worry, sir, we're all very pleased about Mr. Turnbull's remarkable recovery. His fractured skull is healing nicely; he has already regained almost full memory." She had smiled at Ray. "The pins in his elbow will come out tomorrow, and we're expecting him to regain full use of his left arm."  
  
She was obviously very happy about all this, and she seemed to have completely forgotten the aftercare thing. Ray reluctantly reminded her.  
  
"Oh, yes. Most importantly, Mr. Turnbull needs to rest a lot. He has to stay in bed for at least another week. You'll have to buy the groceries and do the cooking, and he'll probably need assistance in feeding and washing himself."  
  
She had looked at him radiantly, as if she expected him to be delighted about it. He realized why. She thought it was _romantic_. She was one of those women who had a thing for gay guys, and she thought he was one. She was in part right, of course, but that had nothing to do with Turnbull. Jeez.  
  
"When I've, um, taken care of him during the day, is it okay for me to go home at night?" Ray had asked, going for a meaningful glare.  
  
"Well, yes, of course." The nurse's glare was meaningful too. Why on earth would you want to? it was saying.  
  
She had handed him a card with a number he could call to know the exact time of Turnbull's discharge on Friday, and a letter with "Aftercare instructions for family of Mr. R. Turnbull."  
  
Now, two days later, she was greeting him in the hallway, telling him that Turnbull was waiting for him.  
  
"We've already seated him in a wheelchair," she said cheerfully.  
  
Yeah, wasn't that greatness?  
  
Ray was shocked to see Turnbull. Lying in a bed the guy had seemed reasonably okay, but now sitting in a chair he didn't look well. At all.   
  
"Hey, Turnbull, are you ready to go home?"  
  
Stupid question. The answer was obviously no.  
  
After he got a failed attempt on a smile from Turnbull, Ray took a deep breath, gripped the handles of the chair and wheeled the constable as carefully as possible out of the hospital.  
  
Getting Turnbull in the car took a lot of time and effort for both of them. When it was finally accomplished, Turnbull's face had a pale greenish color.  
  
"Are you all right?" Ray asked.  
  
"Nauseated," Turnbull replied.  
  
Two thoughts occurred to Ray. One was that he didn't want the Goat damaged by Turnbull's puke. The other was that he was a jerk to think about the Goat first, and that Turnbull was a sick man who needed a break, for god's sakes. (That didn't imply that he was looking forward to having the constable puke in the car, of course.) The guy had never done anything wrong to Ray. He probably had never done anything wrong to anybody, because in order to think of something nasty you needed brain cells, and Turnbull didn't have those.  
  
"What's your address?" Ray asked the constable, who seemed to be looking a little less green already.  
  
Turnbull stared at him.  
  
Shit. "You do remember were you live, don't you?"  
  
The constable closed his eyes for a second, as though he really had to concentrate, and came up with an address. Ray hoped it was the right one.  
  
Getting Turnbull out of the car was by no means easier than getting him inside. Getting him inside the apartment was even more difficult than that.  
  
The building had no elevators, only stairs. Turnbull was clinging to the rail as if it was his lifeline. When he took breaks (and he took many), he was swaying on his feet.  
  
Ray could do nothing other than pray that the constable wouldn't collapse. He couldn't support Turnbull because the guy's left arm was in a sling and must not be touched for another week.   
  
Somehow, they managed to get to the right floor and the right door. Ray succeeded in getting Turnbull's keys from his pocket. Together, they managed to get Turnbull in the bedroom and in bed.  
  
The constable was looking terrible, and Ray's considered opinion was that the medics had sent him home way too early.  
  
He found himself opening his mouth to ask Turnbull what groceries he needed. Fuck. Wasn't it obvious that Turnbull needed help - no, care? The guy was in no condition to think about stupid things like groceries. Somebody needed to take some responsibility here.   
  
Ray went to the kitchen and made an inventory. The fridge was unplugged and empty - probably Frannie's doing. Except pots and utensils, there wasn't much stuff in the cupboards and drawers. A box with teabags, a few packages of crackers, a bag of rice, a bag of pasta, that was about it.   
  
One cupboard was different. On the bottom shelf Ray found a wide range of herbs and spices, some of which he'd never even heard. He involuntarily registered that Turnbull loved to cook. Ray was a detective; he noticed things. It's wasn't that he had any personal interest in Turnbull, obviously.  
  
The top shelf of the cupboard was filled with cans of syrup. Ray counted two dozen, all the same flavor. First he thought the sticky stuff must be of a rare Canadian brand, smuggled across the border or something. Then he realized that Turnbull didn't have the brains to be a successful smuggler. Besides, after closer inspection he saw that the syrup was American, and, as far as Ray could tell, of average quality. Turnbull apparently liked strawberry lemonade. A lot.  
  
Ray bought some groceries, bearing in mind what sick people needed (or rather, what his mother had taught him they needed). Milk, and oranges, and soup. (His mother was convinced that sick people needed coughing syrup as well, but Ray reckoned that coughing syrup wouldn't do much for a cracked skull.)  
  
By the time Ray returned to the apartment Turnbull had fallen asleep. This was good of course, sleep was good for sick people, but it left Ray with nothing to do. Which was a bitch, because having nothing to do always made him antsy. Besides, as things were now, it would cause him to think (and feel) and he really didn't need that.  
  
By way of distraction, Ray decided to inspect Turnbull's living room. There was a dinner table with four chairs, but no couch, only a larger chair next to a very small coffee table. If Turnbull put his feet on that table, there would be no room for anything else. But then, Turnbull probably would never do such a thing.   
  
A TV set was sitting opposite of the chair. It was a very tiny TV set. Judging from the distance between the chair and the tube, Turnbull must have amazing eyesight.  
  
There was nothing much on the walls, except a small picture of the queen (who else?) and a couple of bookshelves. On the lower shelf, there were three books, as well as two CDs. Ray had a closer look at the CDs first.   
  
They were The Carpenters' "Voice of the heart" and Abba's "The visitors". Turnbull had very limited taste in music. It was mellow. In capitals. Ray wasn't surprised.  
  
He wouldn't have blinked if the books had contained fairytales or love stories or something, but they didn't. To Ray's surprise the spines read "Pontiac Muscle Cars", "Fifty Years of Ferrari", and "Caterpillar Photo Gallery".   
  
He took the first book from the shelf and noticed there was a leaf inside. He opened the book and removed the leaf. "Ray's car" was written in neat, big, girlish pencil letters next to a picture of a black GTO. It was a strange feeling to see it.  
  
Ray quickly put the book back and took the next one. It had a leaf inside as well. Turnbull had written something next to a picture of a guy who had apparently won the Formula One Grand Prix in 1958. "Looks like Ray" the handwriting said about the racing champion.  
  
Ray didn't agree. Sure, the guy was blond, but he was handsome too, plus he seemed to have some muscles on his bones. But even if Turnbull had a rich fantasy, it was strange that he'd used it to make a comparison that involved Ray. The only the thing that could explain it was that Ray was one of the very few people Turnbull knew. But then, Turnbull knew Fraser too and there weren't any other leaves in the book to indicate look-alikes. Ray's fingers itched, but he kept himself from browsing. He had made a promise to Frannie, and fifty years of Ferrari were not a good enough reason to break it.  
  
The third book contained pictures of bulldozers. Classic ones, apparently. The lines beneath the pictures praised the performances of the caterpillars, making them look very cool. It was strange to realize that Turnbull was into cool stuff.  
  
On the shelf above the books were two ten inch model cars: a black Rolls-Royce and a pink Cadillac. Ray carefully took the Cadillac. It was lightweight, so he figured it wasn't prefab but from a do it your self kit. It was absolutely perfect. The Rolls was too. Turnbull could have bought the models at a garage sale maybe, but somehow that didn't seem likely. They wouldn't be in such good shape if he had. Could the constable have built them himself? Turnbull was clumsy and he had big hands, but he also had Mountie dedication. And he loved cars. He might have built the models, Ray decided.  
  
He went to the bedroom, but Turnbull was still asleep. Ray had a look at a sleeping Turnbull five times more before the constable finally opened his eyes. By that time, Ray felt very, very antsy. There was nothing he could do besides watching TV, but the screen was so small that he had to press his nose against it to see anything. It really wasn't fun.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Ray asked, standing in the doorway.  
  
"I'm all right," Turnbull said. "Did I sleep long?"  
  
"Couple of hours. Would you like some soup?"   
  
Pause. Turnbull wasn't hungry apparently. So much for Ray's good aftercare intentions.  
  
"Soup would be nice," the constable said. "But would you please first help me take off my trousers?"  
  
Oh, shit.   
  
Ray wasn't afraid to see Turnbull's bare legs. He was a regular gym visitor, he'd seen legs before, and he wasn't a sissy. But to undress another man was different than seeing him undressed. And the fact that Turnbull needed his help - as opposed to wanting it - somehow made it worse. Although, if Turnbull _wanted_ his help to take off his pants, Ray probably would really freak out.  
  
Turnbull unbuttoned his jeans and slit the zipper down. Then he looked at Ray and nodded.  
  
Ray took a deep breath - he could do this, this was no big deal - and approached the bed.  
  
Turnbull lifted his hips. Ray pulled the jeans down over the constable's legs and feet. Turnbull's hips sank on the mattress. He was panting.   
  
Ray averted his eyes and dropped the jeans he was holding the moment he realized they were still warm from Turnbull.  
  
This is _not_ intimate, he reminded himself. This is just bloody fucking aftercare.  
  
He shook his head against the image of that fag hag of a hospital nurse who'd probably wet her panties if she could watch this little scene.  
  
When the nurse was gone, Ray tugged at the duvet, and with Turnbull's help he managed to get it on top of the constable.  
  
"I'll heat some soup," he announced.  
  
"Thank you, Detective," Turnbull said. He didn't open his eyes.  
  
When Ray came back, Turnbull tried to sit up straight, with reasonable success.   
  
Ray placed a tray with a bowl of soup and a spoon on the constable's lap, and but realized this wouldn't work when Turnbull tried to eat. There was too big a distance between the bowl and Turnbull's mouth. Besides that, the constable wasn't sitting comfortably.  
  
Ray put a pillow behind Turnbull's back and then touched the bowl on the tray. It was too hot to lift.   
  
"We'll have to wait until it's cooled down a little," Turnbull said.  
  
He was right. Ray knew it would be rude to leave the room, so he didn't, but the sight of Turnbull in bed, looking weak and vulnerable and all made him feel very awkward.   
  
"You could sit down on the edge of the bed," Turnbull suggested.  
  
Ray complied. What else could he do? But it wasn't fun. He didn't know where to look. Looking at Turnbull didn't seem a good idea. His hunches told him it would only increase the awkwardness. So he waited. And cursed aftercare.  
  
Finally, the bowl wasn't too hot to handle anymore. Turnbull took the spoon and moved it to his mouth. Ray made sure the soup the constable spilled landed in the bowl and not on the duvet.  
  
They adopted a quiet rhythm together. Ray was feeling nervous. The closeness, the eye contact, they made it very difficult not to think of this as intimate. He didn't want to think of it as intimate. He really didn't like to think of intimacy and Turnbull in the same sentence.   
  
He found that it was impossible to avert his eyes sitting on the edge of a bed somebody being ill was lying in, holding a bowl so the patient could feed himself.  
  
He couldn't help noticing that Turnbull's eyes were blue. Almost the same color as Fraser's.   
  
The bowl almost slipped out of Ray's hand. Dammit. This was not the time to think of Fraser.   
  
But it was difficult not to do it. If Ray would be sitting here with Fraser instead of Turnbull, things would be so different. It wouldn't be awkward at all. Ray would love it.  
  
Then he realized that Fraser wouldn't love it. He wouldn't even like it.   
  
Ray swallowed and forced himself to focus again. He tilted the bowl so Turnbull could have the last soup.  
  
"Thank you, Detective," the constable said with a tired smile.  
  
Ray took the bowl and the spoon to the kitchen, rinsed them, and brought back a package of crackers, a box of cookies, two apples, and a bottle of water, and put it on the nightstand.  
  
"Do you need anything else?"  
  
"No. Thank you kindly, Detective," Turnbull said.  
  
"Are you sure?" Ray really wanted to go home, but no matter how much he disliked providing it, aftercare was serious business, and he wasn't planning to do a sloppy job at it just because Turnbull wasn't Fraser.   
  
Turnbull shook his head, and Ray helped him to lie down.   
  
"I'm going home now," he said. "Will you be all right?   
  
"I'll be fine, Detective," Turnbull assured him. "Thank you kindly for your help."   
  
"I'll be back tomorrow. Is four okay? And is it all right if I take your keys?"  
  
"Certainly, Detective," the constable said. "I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow."  
  
Ray was cursing the Mountie politeness (it was so fucking _Fraser_ ) when he realized that Turnbull probably wasn't just being polite. He was depending on Ray. Jesus.  
  
"Good night, Detective."  
  
"Sleep tight, Turnbull."   
  
Fuck. Now he sounded like Turnbull was his kid or something. Ray really needed to get away.   
  
One thing was still bothering him. Nobody ever called him "Detective", except Welsh. And Welsh was his boss.  
  
"Would you call me Ray, Turnbull?"   
  
It earned him a faint smile. "I'd be happy to," Turnbull said.  
  
Ray felt antsy. Now the constable probably would want to return the favor and offer to be called Renfield. Ray wouldn't "be happy to" go along with that. "Renfield" was a weird name. He didn't think he could say it without choking.  
  
Turnbull didn't return the favor. He just said, "Good night, Ray" and he sounded sort of happy.  
  
_6\. A silly offer_  
  
When he woke the next morning, Ray didn't know what to do. He had the weekend off, but for the first time in two years, he couldn't spend it with Fraser.   
  
He needed to get out of the apartment. If he stayed in, he would surely break his promise to Frannie and mull over Fraser.   
  
He packed his boxing gear, shoved a couple of CDs in the bag as well, and drove to the gym.  
  
Half way he found himself making a U-turn. It didn't seem right to go jump up and down to work the heavy bag all healthy and shit, while Turnbull was lying in bed feeling sick and miserable.  
  
It was about noon when Ray arrived at Turnbull's. He instantly knew he'd made the wrong decision. Turnbull was still asleep. Of course. The guy needed a lot of rest, not a watchdog. Jeez.  
  
Ray put a CD in the CD-player. It didn't help making him feel better. Playing Pink Floyd on low volume was just stupid, and not being able to dance to the music made him feel restless.   
  
Leaving was not an option, though, so he did a lot of pacing from the living room to the bedroom and back, hoping Turnbull would wake up soon. Then Ray could finally _do_ something.   
  
Jesus, now he was already beginning to see the aftercare thing in a favorable light.  
  
Turnbull awoke at two.   
  
"Ray." He sounded pleasantly surprised. "What time is it?"  
  
"Two p.m."  
  
"Have you been here long?"  
  
Ray shrugged.   
  
"I'm sorry I overslept," Turnbull said.  
  
"You didn't oversleep. I arrived early. I had nothing better to do."  
  
Turnbull blinked.  
  
Oh, greatness, Ray. Really nice.  
  
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he said. "Actually, I was planning on going to the gym, but it didn't seem right to work out while you were in so much pain."  
  
Oh, _much_ better, Ray. Why don't you just have a sex change, put on a pink dress, and be a _real_ girl from now on.  
  
"You are very kind to me, Ray," Turnbull said. "But the pain is rather bearable."  
  
Yeah, sure, to Mountie standards, Ray thought. Normal, non-Mountie people would have long demanded morphine drips - with nice wide tubes - in Turnbull's situation.  
  
The hint of admiration he felt didn't help make him feel better about assisting Turnbull in washing himself. Of course, even a guy more macho than Ray would feel nervous when he had to help another guy wash himself by handing him a washcloth and taking it back to rinse it in a bowl so the other guy could use it on another part of his almost naked body. But that didn't help Ray to feel less awkward about it.  
  
He tried to distract himself by imagining how his father would react if he ever needed help like this from his son. He'd be grumpy, no doubt. His brother Marlon on the other hand would mock himself _and_ Ray if they were ever put in this kind of situation. Marlon would probably make it an incestuous thing, pretending that he relished the treatment he got from his little brother.  
  
Turnbull didn't grumble or tease. He just sort of surrendered. Jesus.  
  
When Turnbull was clean, Ray made some sandwiches and watched while the constable ate one. He witnessed him chew very carefully. And he realized he'd looked at Turnbull more during the past 24 hours than he had in the last two years.  
  
Eating a sandwich seemed to wear the constable out. When Turnbull went to sleep again, Ray returned to the living room, and took "Pontiac Muscle cars" from the bookshelf. He wasn't very much into books, but this one wasn't as boring as most because it had lots of pictures. Pictures of cars were the next best thing to real cars.   
  
Turnbull woke at six and had some soup and crackers. "Thank you, Ray," he smiled, when he had finished them.  
  
Ray found himself smiling back at the constable. He froze at the notion but then relaxed. He was returning Turnbull's smile - _so what_? It wasn't a crime. Surely, nurses smiled at their patients all the time.  
  
"I'll drop by again tomorrow," he said, when he had checked and double checked if the constable had everything he needed. "Good night."  
  
Turnbull opened his mouth to say something.  
  
"Don't worry that you'll oversleep," Ray said. "I'll make sure I won't be early."  
  
***  
  
He kept his promise. He went to the gym the next morning to work the heavy bag. The adrenaline felt good, and when the bag sort of became Fraser, Ray didn't mind. He just pounded the guy; hard and fast and cursing. Fraser deserved every beat, goddammit.  
  
At some point Ray realized that he had started to hug the heavy bag between hits. Okay, he'd worn himself out, but crying in the middle of the gym was not a good idea. He had to save it for some other time and place.   
  
He gave the bag some last good punches and quit.  
  
When he entered Turnbull's apartment Ray felt strangely loose and relaxed. Helping the constable wash himself wasn't as nerve-wrecking as it had been yesterday. It started to feel kind of normal, like something that just needed to be done, something that wasn't such a big deal at all.   
  
Maybe it helped that Turnbull didn't seem so weak today. He was awake when Ray arrived and had greeted him cheerfully. He ate two sandwiches and a cookie before he went to sleep.  
  
Ray read "Fifty years of Ferrari". He had a look at the sleeping constable only three times during the afternoon. The last time he went to see if Turnbull was awake, the constable was gone.   
  
"Turnbull," Ray called out. The worry in his voice was rather pathetic.  
  
The toilet in the bathroom was flushed and then a tap was running.   
  
The relief Ray felt at this was really embarrassing. Jesus, couldn't he even allow another guy to take a leak without panicking?  
  
Turnbull appeared in the doorway. "I'm all right, Ray," he said quietly.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I know. Sorry. Do you need anything?"   
  
"Well, I'd very much like to have a glass of strawberry lemonade," Turnbull said. "The syrup is-"  
  
"On the top shelf of the cupboard on the right wall," Ray interrupted him. Then he grinned. "Did you inherit those cans?"  
  
"No, I didn't," Turnbull said solemnly. "I just like strawberry lemonade very much."  
  
Ray watched him getting into bed without help. "Right," he said. "One strawberry lemonade coming up. How strong?"  
  
"An inch of syrup at least, if you'd please," Turnbull said. And he meant it.  
  
Ray felt a little sick. He had lemonade trauma. He got it when he was five.  
  
At that time, he had just discovered how his mother made orange lemonade. She used some bright orange stuff from a bottle, poured a few drops of it in a glass and then spoiled it by adding a lot of water. Ray had figured that it'd be much better (`cause sweeter) not to add the water. When his mother was upstairs once, he had made himself a glass of pure orange syrup. He had taken a big gulp, expecting it to taste delicious. Shocked because it hadn't, he'd forgotten to spit it out and swallowed it instead. He'd been pretty sick.  
  
The experience hadn't cured him from his sweet tooth, but since then drinking lemonade was a bit scary to him.   
  
To Turnbull it clearly wasn't.  
  
"Okay," Ray said to the constable. "One nice, strong strawberry lemonade coming up."  
  
***  
  
On Monday, Ray got to the precinct to collect Carol. They worked on the Brandon Lewis case the whole morning but made very little progress and felt they really needed a break at lunchtime.   
  
"I'd like to visit a friend," Ray said. "He's sick. Would you mind to have lunch without me? Maybe you could ask Frannie."  
  
Carol grinned. "Excellent suggestion. I already discovered that Frannie is a wonderful lunch companion."  
  
Karen Carpenter's voice greeted Ray when he entered Turnbull's apartment.   
  
The constable was out of bed, making himself a glass of lemonade.  
  
"You're not allowed to be up until Friday," Ray said sternly.   
  
"I was thirsty," Turnbull apologized.  
  
Yeah, too much sugar usually has that effect, Ray wanted to say. "Give me the glass and get back into bed," he said instead.  
  
Turnbull obeyed. That was nice. Ray had little experience with bossing people around, but it felt good.  
  
He put the glass of deep red lemonade on the nightstand and told Turnbull to stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon, until he - Ray - would be back.  
  
"Yes, Ray," Turnbull said.   
  
Oh yeah, real nice.  
  
Ray was back at six. Good Turnbull was still in bed. He was awake and looked surprisingly healthy.   
  
"Are you hungry?" Ray asked. "Would you like anything other than soup? Pizza maybe?"  
  
"I'd prefer vegetarian lasagna, if that's all right with you, Ray," Turnbull said.  
  
Ray called Salvatore, who was surprised but apparently pleased to hear from him.  
  
"I'm back," Ray said nonchalantly. "I need the usual pizza, and a vegetarian lasagna."   
  
"Vegetarian lasagna? Constable Fraser isn't ill, is he?"  
  
"Not that I know of. He was fine when I last saw him," Ray said. "He's still up North. We...we separated."  
  
Jesus. He hated to use that word. It sounded so fucking gay. But he couldn't think of another way to explain things without having to explain things and sounding even gayer.  
  
"I see. Yeah, partners split sometimes," Salvatore said compassionately. "It happened to me once, when Ricardo told me he was sick of the catering industry and wanted out." His tone changed completely when he asked, "Did you meet somebody?"  
  
Ray sighed. Fucking Italian curiosity. "No, the lasagna is for a sick friend."  
  
"Vegetarian lasagna is excellent food for sick friends," Salvatore said conspiringly.  
  
"Then hurry. By the way, Sandor needs to drive a few extra blocks because my friend lives in the twelfth district."  
  
Ray gave Salvatore the address. "I'll make it worth your while."  
  
"That's fine, Ray," Salvatore said. "Just tell me, is she hot?"  
  
"Yeah, he's extremely hot. His temperature is a 105. He's sick remember?"  
  
Turnbull didn't have a fever - Ray hoped he didn't - but Salvatore really needed to shut his trap for once.  
  
The food arrived. Ray ate the entire pizza with extra pineapple and Turnbull ate half of his lasagna.  
  
"Are you tired?"  
  
Turnbull shook his head. "No, Ray, my stomach just isn't used to such a large amount of calories anymore. I'm fine." He smiled. "Just a little bored. Would you tell me about your day today?"  
  
Ray tried to come up with an interesting story, but the only non-boring thing he could think of was Carol and her way of interrogating goons and snitches. She never threatened to kick them in the head. On the contrary, she was always very worried about their well-being. It hadn't taken Ray more than half a day to get Carol's act of behaving like a mother hen until her victims told her if they were in trouble, if temptation to do something illegal had been too strong for them to resist, or if they had been talking to bad people.  
  
"She sounds like a very nice woman," Turnbull said.  
  
Ray grinned. He'd known the constable would say something like that.  
  
There was a silence. It wasn't uncomfortable, it just made Ray look at Turnbull and wonder about him.  
  
"I've seen your books," he said. "I never knew that you are so much into cars."  
  
"I love cars. They are fast, and beautiful, and impressive," Turnbull said immediately. He sounded like a true admirer.  
  
"Then why don't you own a car?"  
  
"I don't have a driver's license. I failed my tests. I don't have the talent."  
  
That was just wrong. A guy who loved cars as much as Turnbull did was entitled to have a license.  
  
"When you've recovered I will teach you," Ray said.  
  
"I don't think it'll be any use," Turnbull said regretfully.  
  
Tough shit. Ray was going to try anyway. "I'm going to teach you how to drive. Got that?"  
  
"Yes, Ray, but-"  
  
"Did you _like_ to drive the times you tried?"  
  
"Oh, yes." Turnbull nodded enthusiastically. "It felt very powerful to make something so big move like that all by myself." His face dropped. "But my instructors told me I wasn't any good."  
  
Ray didn't think much of instructors, or teachers in general. They were all narcissists who didn't have one creative cell in their bodies, a fact they took out on people who depended on them, brainwashing their pupils into thinking that having an unusual go at things was some kind of sin.  
  
"If you love it, you can do it," he stated.  
  
"Do you really think so?"   
  
A radiant smile spread across Turnbull's face, and something kicked Ray in the gut. He had managed to dodge it for seven days, thinking about the promise he made to Frannie, but now he couldn't avoid it any longer. He'd poured out all his anger in the gym yesterday, and there wasn't any left to protect him from the hurt.  
  
It hurt _bad_ to realize that he'd give anything to make Fraser look as happy as Turnbull looked now. He knew he never would. Only the Northwest Territories had that ability.   
  
Jesus. Ray did not want to cry. Not in front of Turnbull.  
  
"Are you all right, Ray?" the constable asked.  
  
"Yeah," Ray nodded, but he knew that even Turnbull wouldn't be fooled by the tone.  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
"No." He needed to control himself. Turnbull needed _his_ care, not the other way around.  
  
"It's Constable Fraser, isn't it?"  
  
Something snapped. Ray just couldn't help it. He tried, but it was no use. He spilled the whole story, starting with the discovery of his feelings for Fraser. He told Turnbull about the shock of it, the hope that Fraser felt the same, the need to do something about it, the fear of making the wrong move, the patience, the search for the Hand of Franklin, the end of their trip, Fraser's rejection.  
  
"There are handkerchiefs in the top drawer of the nightstand," Turnbull said softly when Ray had finished his story.  
  
Ray took one, dried his tears, blew his nose and felt very pathetic.   
  
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you with this," he said. "I'm just one completely fucked up guy. A worthless piece of shit. I fuck up everything that's important to me. My marriage to Stella, my partnership with Fraser. I appear to have this great habit of always falling in love the wrong way with the wrong people." Wallowing in self-pity some more, he added, "I'm good for nothing."  
  
"That's not true!" Turnbull said. "You are wonderful, Ray!" The objection sounded pretty strong.   
  
This was a surprise to Ray, because he would have thought that Turnbull could identify with low self-esteem like nobody's business.  
  
"I know I have no right to interfere with your grief about Constable Fraser's decision, but I can't allow you to think so low of yourself. You are wonderful, Ray," Turnbull repeated.  
  
Ray felt all but wonderful right now. Of course, Turnbull was unhinged. Besides, he was still in the process of recovering from a cracked skull, so the things he said mustn't be taken too seriously. But something in the man's tone made Ray search his face for clues. And then he realized.   
  
Bloody fucking hell.  
  
"You're in love with me."   
  
"Yes."  
  
"Since when?"  
  
"Since the day I first met you, I'm afraid."  
  
Jesus.   
  
Ray was speechless. His heart started to race, and his mouth got dry. He didn't feel repulsed by Turnbull's confession. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was a strange realization. His eyes were drawn to Turnbull's lips. Then to his eyes. Turnbull blushed. It was kind of cute.  
  
It occurred to Ray that Turnbull was rather good looking, in that beauty without brains kind of way. There were...possibilities here. The guy really deserved to have a good time for a change. And Ray himself deserved to feel wanted just for once.  
  
"Do you want me to kiss you?" he asked.  
  
"No."  
  
"No?"  
  
"No," Turnbull repeated. "I do have _some_ self-esteem, Ray. I don't want your pity. And I most certainly don't want to be a stand in for Constable Fraser."  
  
Oh. Right.  
  
"Don't get me wrong, Ray. I think the world of you. You are the most wonderful and beautiful man I ever laid eyes on. Even if I can't have your love, I'd be most happy with your friendship."   
  
Ray had the same weird feeling he sometimes had as a kid, when his mother reprimanded him for something, and even _he_ had to agree that she was right.  
  
Turnbull said, "I don't mean to reject you, Ray, only your offer that, as you undoubtedly will see in the morning, is rather silly."  
  
_7\. Friends_  
  
On Friday, Turnbull was allowed out of bed. When Ray entered the apartment, the constable announced that he was going to take a shower.  
  
"Yell if you start to feel dizzy," Ray warned. He changed the sheets on Turnbull's bed, his ears focused on the sounds coming from the bathroom, expecting to hear a yell or a loud thud any moment.  
  
But Turnbull had really made progress the past week apparently. Ray only heard perfectly normal shower noises.  
  
He was still in the process of making the bed, when Turnbull appeared in the doorway, wearing a bathrobe. His hair was wet, and for some reason the scene of the two of them in the bedroom like this struck Ray as terribly homey, and reminded him vividly of his silly offer on Monday. It was an embarrassing memory, and he left the room as soon as he could.   
  
He had to start dinner anyway.  
  
After dinner, Ray asked Turnbull about his model cars. "Did you build them yourself?"  
  
Turnbull nodded.  
  
"They're brilliant. You must have taken a hundred alarm clocks apart as a kid and put them back together again to develop a skill like that."  
  
Turnbull stared at him, apparently horrified. "I never would have dared to do such a thing, Ray. What if I had failed and left the alarm clocks irreparable?"  
  
Yeah, what if?  
  
"You wanna watch television?" Ray asked.  
  
"I'd like that," Turnbull said. "Will you watch it with me?"  
  
Stupid question. Ray did not intend to leave for the next couple of hours.  
  
They watched a game of curling. It was rather boring to Ray, but he reckoned it would be good for Turnbull not to get too much excitement.  
  
Only, to the constable the game seemed very exciting. He was constantly jumping up and down in his chair, yelling "Sweep!", and "Yes!", or "Oh, no!" every ten seconds.  
  
Turnbull's favorite team won the game, but it was a close call, and the constable looked exhausted afterwards.  
  
"You need to go to bed," Ray said, and he saw to it that Turnbull obeyed the order.  
  
***  
  
Two weeks after Turnbull's discharge from the hospital, the constable only needed a couple of hours rest in the afternoon, and was allowed to go outside.  
  
"Let's hire a video and watch it at my place," Ray suggested.  
  
They drove to the video store. Inside, Ray walked straight to the Action section, with one particular title in mind. He knew Turnbull would love the movie.  
  
The constable was lingering in the Romantic Comedy corner. Ray wasn't surprised. Turnbull probably never saw "Bullitt" before. Steve McQueen. Ten minutes of brilliant car chasing. Oh, man.  
  
Ray went over to the romcom corner. Turnbull was holding a cover.   
  
"Could we take this one, Ray? It's my favorite movie."  
  
Ray didn't recognize the title, but he noticed there were two familiar names among the cast. Turnbull sounded very enthusiastic. Ray thought it wouldn't be a good idea to try to persuade the constable that "Bullitt" was the better choice. Besides, he'd seen it about a dozen times before himself.  
  
It felt weird to have Turnbull as a visitor instead of Fraser. Ray hadn't anticipated that, and when he realized it, it struck him that it wasn't as painful as it should have been. Now was not the time to think about it, he decided. Now was the time to watch Turnbull's romantic comedy and try not to yawn from boredom.  
  
The movie was sappy, of course. Turnbull seemed mesmerized by it, however. Well, he seemed to be mesmerized by Julia Roberts. Ray thought he shouldn't be. It wasn't right for a man who claimed to be in love with _him_ to have such an obvious crush on a woman. Especially if she was Julia Roberts.  
  
"Do you think she'll be happy?" Turnbull asked when the credits were rolling.  
  
"Sure she will," Ray said. "She has a gay friend who looks after her. Wouldn't anybody be happy with that?"  
  
Turnbull turned his head and stared at him.  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
"I didn't mean...I didn't mean to hint on anything," Ray said.  
  
"I know," Turnbull replied quietly. "Are we friends, Ray?"  
  
"Yeah," Ray said. "Yeah, we are."  
  
***  
  
They were friends, and the only thing that was weird about it was that it didn't feel weird.   
  
Before he went to Canada with Fraser, Ray had thought he was allergic to Turnbull. The guy was a complete moron, whose stupidity was constantly getting on everybody's nerves, including Fraser's. (And obviously, anybody who got on Fraser's nerves deserved a kick in the head from Ray.)  
  
After Ray had returned to Chicago, he hadn't heard Turnbull say one single stupid thing. The constable was just quiet, content, and completely accepting that fact that his love for Ray was unrequited. He was nice company.  
  
He was also weird, of course. His taste in music, his addiction to strawberry lemonade, his crush on Julia Roberts all defined him as odd to say the least.  
  
At some point in time, Ray discovered that one of Turnbull's hobbies was "looking at people". He practiced it wherever he could.  
  
They were in the park, sitting on the grass, and Turnbull was _watching_ , completely enthralled.   
  
"What are you looking at?" Ray asked.  
  
"That couple over there playing badminton. They haven't dropped the shuttle once in the last ten minutes," Turnbull said.  
  
A little while later, he notified Ray, "That little girl is feeding her dog ice cream."  
  
Turnbull was registering what he saw, he wasn't judging, Ray realized. Fraser would have made a remark about how skilled the badminton players were, and he would have frowned upon the little girl's behavior, stating that it was unwise to feed ice cream to a canine, adding something prissy in response to Dief's undoubtedly indignant protest.  
  
God, Ray missed Fraser. But Turnbull's presence was a comfort - he couldn't deny that.  
  
He didn't need to ask himself why. He could just have it and enjoy it.  
  
***  
  
One day Ray took Turnbull out of town for his first driving lesson. He knew the perfect spot; no trees, no traffic, just a lot of space and sand. The Goat would be dusty afterwards of course, but that could be fixed.  
  
Turnbull was very excited when they changed seats. Ray explained ignition, steering wheel, gas, breaks, gearbox and clutch to him, and immediately regretted having pointed out the latter two when Turnbull took off.  
  
The Goat was clearly in pain when the constable shifted gear. Ray took Turnbull's hand off the stick. "I'll handle the gear shifting for now," he said. "You just drive and steer."  
  
Turnbull looked relieved. He drove very slowly. "You can go faster," Ray said. "Just step on the gas a little more."  
  
Turnbull didn't seem to hear him. After a couple of dreadfully slow yards, Ray put his hand on Turnbull's right knee and pushed. The Goat jumped forward and the constable shrieked, "Ray!"  
  
"Just wanted to make a point," Ray said. "Now you try. Put your right foot down if you want to faster, lift it when you need to go slower, and if you want to make a turn, using the breaks might come in handy."  
  
The Goat went faster now - just a little. They drove around for about an hour, and Ray assessed that despite the fact that Turnbull wasn't the most talented driver, with a lot of time, effort, and patience, he could get his license. Obviously, to Turnbull time, effort and patience were a piece of cake. The thing was, wouldn't the challenge be too big for Ray? Well, he was willing to find out.  
  
"Okay, stop the car," he said. "You did great."  
  
When they changed seats again, Turnbull gave him a radiant smile. If the guy had just won a Formula One race he couldn't have looked happier.   
  
***  
  
Turnbull went back to work at the consulate. If cases allowed it, Ray spent his lunchtime there. Surprisingly often, Turnbull helped him out with a case. Not by making suggestions, but by asking questions. Strange and apparently stupid ones, like, "But why did Mr. Baker take a shower at three in the afternoon, Ray?" He never came up with a possible answer, but he made Ray focus on details that weren't details after all, but major clues.  
  
Ray learnt that Inspector Blair was a very nice woman, not at all like the Ice Queen. When Turnbull introduced her to Ray, she smiled warmly. "Detective Kowalski, how very nice to meet you. I understand that we owe you a lot for nursing Constable Turnbull back to health. You did an excellent job."   
  
With Turnbull being back to health, Ray didn't see as much of him as he had before, but sometimes he called at night, just to hear the constable's voice and ask something like, "What have you been doing today?"   
  
It was amazing how enthusiastically Turnbull could talk about his boring assignments.   
  
"How do you do that?" Ray asked.  
  
"What, Ray?"  
  
"Talk about your job at the consulate as though you really like it."  
  
"Well, it is what I'm ordered to do," Turnbull said. "If I wouldn't make it interesting, it would be worse."  
  
"You don't have to do it," Ray said. "You could do other stuff. You're way smarter than you let on."  
  
"Ray! Shhh." Turnbull sounded shocked.  
  
"Why do you want to keep it a secret?"  
  
"Because if I would be assigned more challenging tasks I might make mistakes," Turnbull explained. "Ones that really mattered."   
  
"So?" Ray said. "You can't make any omelets without breaking eggs, Turnbull."  
  
"But I'd disappoint people."  
  
"Is that the worst thing that could happen to you?"   
  
"Yes, Ray," Turnbull said solemnly. "I don't think I'd survive."  
  
Ray had read about fear of failure. He had experienced it occasionally as well, that wasn't the point, but he didn't get it that some people decided _never_ to do the things they wanted to do because the fear of not succeeding was _always_ there, like a principle or something.   
  
Then he'd read this article about perfectionism. (From a Fraser related desire to learn more about it, obviously.) Apparently, perfectionists had two possible ways of coping: aiming too low and aiming too high.  
  
This could be tested by asking people to throw rings around a stick that was pointing upwards from the ground (the article had said) while they were allowed to choose the distance from the goal themselves. Some of them chose reasonable distances. They mostly succeeded and sometimes failed (and they weren't of interest to the researchers because they weren't true perfectionists.) Others stayed very close to the stick and only succeeded - the low aiming perfectionists - and a third group chose the corner that was furthest from the goal, knowing for sure they'd never succeed - the high aiming ones. (Fraser, of course, would make a third type of perfectionist; one that succeeded every time, no matter how big the distance was from the goal.)  
  
The trait all perfectionists shared, the article concluded, was the need to predict their performances accurately. Ray got that. Still, there was something weird about Turnbull in relation to this. (There was something weird about Turnbull in relation to almost anything, but that was beside the point.) The constable clearly was a low aiming perfectionist. And yet, when nobody had been looking he had decided to run for public office, which was pretty ambitious to say the least. He had shifted from one perfectionist type to another, and perfectionists weren't supposed to do that, according to the article. Turnbull couldn't have known _for sure_ that he'd fail. Ray suspected that was the reason he'd let himself be run over by his campaign bus. He needed to be certain he wouldn't succeed.  
  
If Ray had been a social scientist, he could have written an article about Turnbull.   
  
He was glad to be just a detective.  
  
***  
  
One morning, Carol announced that she'd like to have lunch with Ray. "It has occurred to me that you often have brainwaves about cases right after lunch. I'm curious as to why that is," she said.  
  
Ray took her to the consulate. After all, Turnbull wasn't a secret, was he?  
  
"Does he still work here?" Carol asked when they arrived. "I thought he went back to Canada."  
  
"He did," Ray said. "This is another one."  
  
Jeez, real smart piece of conversation.  
  
Carol was quite taken by Turnbull and the feeling was mutual. Ray felt a little left out.  
  
Back in the Goat, Carol said, "He's nice. Kind. And smart." She paused. "He's also handsome. And very cute. You have noticed that, haven't you, Ray?"  
  
"No, I haven't," Ray stated. "Turnbull and I are just friends."  
  
"Of course you are, Ray," Carol replied.  
  
Ray sighed. Did _all_ women have the nasty habit of telling guys they were right, using perfectly innocent words, while adopting a tone that totally contradicted the message? He'd heard it a zillion times coming from Stella. Frannie did it too. And his mother. And now Carol.   
  
Ray suspected it was a female conspiracy to make guys feel like complete idiots. And boy, did it work.   
  
Even though Turnbull and him _were_ just friends.  
  
_8\. Kids, don't you just love'm?_  
  
"What would you like to do today?" Ray asked. It had become a very common question, just like, "What would you like to have for dinner?" or "Can I do anything for you?"   
  
Turnbull's discharge from hospital was months ago now, but for some reason, Ray didn't seem capable of completely shaking the aftercare mode.  
  
"I'd like to walk to the park and spend the afternoon there, if that's okay," Turnbull said.  
  
Ray preferred to take the Goat. He even considered letting Turnbull drive. The constable could do it; Ray's lessons were starting to pay off. Ray didn't suggest it, though. ("Ray, my driving the car would be a criminal offense. I don't have my license yet." He just could hear Turnbull say it.) Besides, if they choose to walk, Turnbull would have a better look at the people on the pavement.  
  
They got a bottle of strawberry lemonade, a bottle of coke, and a bag of crisps and went outside.   
  
The sun was shining brightly; it was hot. They walked very slowly. The temperature had a lot to do with that, obviously, but even more importantly: looking at people required either being in one place or moving very slowly.   
  
At some point, Turnbull stopped in his tracks. "Ray, look!"  
  
They were standing in front of a Toys "R" Us store. The constable was referring to a large box in the window. It had a picture of a caterpillar on it. "Remote controlled" the blue label read.  
  
"Isn't that amazing?" Turnbull said. "How would they manage to make such a thing work?"  
  
Ray opened his mouth to say something about electricity, transmitters, and batteries, but closed it again. The constable was completely transfixed by the box.   
  
"It's a great toy, isn't it?" Ray said, thinking credit card.   
  
It was ridiculous, of course. The car was extremely expensive, Turnbull was ten at least twenty years ago, and it wasn't his birthday today. It was completely insane of Ray to even consider buying Turnbull the caterpillar as a present.  
  
"Let's go inside," he said.  
  
Buying the car wasn't easy. Paying the money was the least of Ray's problems. The difficult part was taking the suspicious glares he got from the toy salesman. Or the ones Turnbull got, more like. The constable was staring at the box disappearing in wrapping paper with the look of a lovesick puppy in his eyes. The toy salesman seemed to think he was deranged. The guy was right, of course, but Ray thought he didn't have the right to be. The fact that in _Ray's_ opinion Turnbull was crazy didn't mean others were allowed to think the same thing.   
  
"You take it," Ray said to the constable, when the salesman had finished wrapping the box and agreed on Ray's payment. "I'll take the other stuff."  
  
They continued their walk to the park even more slowly now. Turnbull was clutching his gift like it was a baby or something.  
  
They found a spot in the park, and Turnbull put the box down.   
  
"Are you going to try your new car now, Ray?" He sounded longing.  
  
"My car? No, it's yours, Turnbull," Ray said. "I bought it for you. Didn't you get that?"   
  
Obviously not. Turnbull stared at him. "But it was terribly expensive, Ray!"  
  
It was. Embarrassingly so. That was probably the reason why Ray hadn't handed Turnbull the present the way he should have, saying something like, "Here you are, Turnbull. This is for you. Because you are my friend and because I think you deserve to have something you really, really like. Enjoy it." Instead he'd sort of snarled, "You take it" - afraid of what the toy salesman would think. As though liking Turnbull and wanting to see him happy was something to be ashamed of. Fuck.  
  
"I hope you like it," Ray said.  
  
"Of course I do, it's wonderful! Thank you, Ray!" Turnbull replied. He paused for a second. "Ray, why did you buy it for me?"  
  
Jeez. So much for Turnbull never wondering about other people's motives.  
  
"Shut up, Turnbull," Ray said. "Unwrap your present and go try it."  
  
The constable needed some help getting his car working, but within fifteen minutes, the caterpillar was assembled and ready for its first drive. Turnbull was positively glowing.  
  
"Look, Ray, look how fast it goes!"   
  
"Look, Ray, did you see that? It can make turns!"  
  
"Yeah, Turnbull, it's great," Ray said.   
  
The constable was having the time of his life. The caterpillar not only could go fast and make turns; it was also capable of climbing rocks and moving them. It felt strange to see Turnbull so much absorbed in what he was doing.   
  
A couple of kids were gathering around Turnbull - or around the caterpillar, more like. There were seven of them, three girls, slightly older than the boys. One of the boys tried to take the remote control panel out of Turnbull's hands. The constable didn't seem to know how to react to this.  
  
Ray got up to interfere. "Leave him alone," he said. "He just got the car today."  
  
The boy shrugged and backed off. No harm seemed to be done.  
  
Well, except for the oldest of the girls - by rough estimation, she was about eleven - coming up to Ray and asking, "Is he your mentally retarded brother?"  
  
Jesus.  
  
"He's not mentally retarded. And he's not my brother," Ray said. He wasn't sure he'd convinced her.  
  
The boys had settled on giving Turnbull orders on what to make the caterpillar do. This seemed to be fun to everybody.  
  
The two other girls were bored with it soon, though. They joined Ray and their older friend.  
  
"Boys are stupid," the tallest of them declared. "They like stupid things." Her tone indicated that Ray had better take this for a fact. When he didn't defend himself or his gender, she continued, "Your friend is the stupidest. He's a grown-up and he's playing with toys."  
  
Ray felt the need to fill her in about adults. "You know, playing isn't something only kids like to do. Grown-ups just haven't so much time for it. They have to earn money, clean their houses, and raise their children and stuff. But that doesn't mean they don't like to play."  
  
The girls stared at him. They were apparently awaiting his point.  
  
"What does your father do when he isn't working?" Ray asked the youngest girl, who hadn't said a word yet.  
  
"He likes to play with his trains," she replied immediately. "He has built his own railway, and he's made a landscape for it with tunnels, and mountains, and lakes and stuff. He's also built tiny houses. He's very good at building, my dad."  
  
It was clear to Ray that the man was a true hero.  
  
He turned to mentally-retarded-brother-girl, but her stare told him that it was none of his business what her parents were doing in their spare time. So instead, he looked at the most talkative of the girls.  
  
"My mother is an _actress_ " she said instantly. Ray had heard people pronounce the word "whore" with less contempt. "When she isn't working, she and her friends dress up and _pretend_. Like in a _school play_." Her tone of voice didn't leave any doubt about her opinion on school, school plays, and grown-ups playing School Play.  
  
When she rolled her eyes and heaved a deep sigh for dramatic effect, Ray thought that she'd make a fine actress herself one day if she learnt to tone it down a little.  
  
From the corner of his eye, he saw that the boys had moved on to another kind of play. Turnbull was assigned toy now.  
  
Impressed by the climbing performances of the caterpillar, the boys were curious to see if it could also climb something really big: like Turnbull. "Lie down! Lie down!" they yelled, pulling at his arms and legs.  
  
Ray had once read "Gulliver's travels" as a kid. The guy on the front cover of the book hadn't looked comfortable, and the midgets surrounding him had been looking very mean.   
  
This was not a good idea.  
  
"Come on, guys," he said. "Leave him alone."  
  
He could see the boys thinking that he was a spoilsport, but that it was no surprise really, because he was an adult, so what did they expect?   
  
They petted the caterpillar one last time, said bye to Turnbull, and left. The girls left too, except the oldest. She watched Turnbull, who was running around in circles after the car trying to make it turn as fast as possible and looking incredibly stupid in the process.   
  
"Well, I _suppose_ he's kind of cute," she said. She sounded a 110 instead of eleven.   
  
Ray didn't regret it when she left.  
  
"Turnbull, get your stuff," he yelled. "We're going. I'll buy you ice cream on the way home."  
  
Oh, fuck. He so hoped mentally-retarded-brother-girl hadn't heard that one.  
  
_9\. Revelation_  
  
"What kind of ice cream would you like?" Ray asked.  
  
"Pistachio, please," Turnbull replied.  
  
"What other flavor? You can have three scoops."  
  
"Then I'd like to have three scoops of pistachio ice cream, Ray."  
  
The ice cream vendor was watching the scene with apparent interest, and Ray suddenly realized that if people were thinking that Turnbull was deranged or mentally retarded, it wasn't entirely the constable's doing. He - Ray - was partly to blame as well. Why didn't he just treat Turnbull like the grown man he was?  
  
"Right, three scoops of pistachio it is," he said to the vendor, adding an order for a vanilla-mocha-chocolate cone.  
  
"I love pistachio ice cream," Turnbull said, when they were heading home. He wasn't lying. There was ice cream at the corner of his mouth, on the tip of his nose, and he had a green pistachio mustache above his upper lip.  
  
Ray felt the urge to clean him. It was a nice idea of course to want to treat Turnbull like a grown man, but it was damn difficult to do when the guy kept behaving like a big kid. Adults were evolutionary wired to take care of kids - everybody knew that. Turnbull just triggered an instinct.  
  
Turnbull also took a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his face, like a very well-bred child.  
  
At Turnbull's apartment, Ray asked the constable out for dinner.  
  
Turnbull shook his head. "I did some groceries this morning. I'd like to cook for you if I may."  
  
"I'll help you," said Ray, the flexible.  
  
Watching Turnbull prepare dinner was something else. (Something else than watching him play with a remote controlled caterpillar or witnessing him eat an ice cream cone, to name some random examples.) There was nothing childlike about Turnbull, the cook. He was efficient, self-assured, and authoritarian. It was kind of exciting to obey his orders. (Fuck. Did you catch sunstroke this afternoon, Ray?)  
  
Dinner was greatness, the taste of it and the company, but when the dishes were done there was nothing more to be said, except, "I had a great day today, Turnbull. Thank you very much."  
  
"I have to thank _you_ , Ray," Turnbull replied. "For the caterpillar, and the ice cream, and your company."   
  
His smile made Ray not want to leave. There really was nothing more to say, though, so he said, "See you soon," and left.  
  
Driving home, Ray felt strange. Restless, but not in an antsy way. He wasn't nervous, he just felt too big for his skin for some reason. He tried to remember if he'd ever felt like this before.  
  
And there it was. He'd been fifteen. At the lake with Stella. She was blond and tanned, and wearing nothing but a tiny white bikini. She was _his_ girl, and he'd never seen a creature as beautiful and arousing as her. It showed in his trunks, and she laughed. She wasn't shocked - or much impressed for that matter. She sat down next to him, smiled, and kissed him. Very sweetly at first, but then in a different way, a way that undid him.   
  
She'd never done this before, telling him she wanted this - him - so straightforwardly. She'd been flirting, of course, but he'd always felt she challenged him to solve the riddle of her signals. Which meant "Yes, Ray," and which meant "No," was entirely up to him to find out.  
  
Now, she was all "Yes, Ray". She was on top of him, in his arms, kissing him like she knew what she was doing and meant to do it. He was allowed to hold a warm, soft, almost naked Stella in his arms for hours on end.  
  
Not once did he suggest she'd do something about the bikini. He knew damn well it was there for a purpose; she felt free because of it. To ask her to take it off would spoil everything. So he didn't. He just enjoyed the afternoon and Stella - so much he felt like crying a couple of times.  
  
When he brought her home, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him, never minding her parents watching. "I love you," she said.  
  
He never rode his bike as fast as he did that day on the way home. He felt like he was flying, like he was too big for the world. He'd been happy, in love.   
  
The Goat's tires shrieked when Ray realized what had caused him to remember this particular scene.  
  
He was in love.   
  
With Turnbull.  
  
How about that for an epiphany?  
  
Behind him, somebody honked the horn, and Ray grinned and set the car in motion again. His first impulse was to make a U-turn and tell Turnbull about his feelings. But then he reconsidered. If he wanted to tell Turnbull something like this, he'd better prepare first and do it right. Tomorrow.   
  
In the meantime, he had to have a little conversation with the voice inside his head that demanded an explanation. So Ray had fallen in love with Turnbull. When did this happen? How did this happen? How could this _be_?  
  
"To start with the last question," Ray told the voice, "Turnbull is great. He's kind, he's easy to be with, he has this amazing ability to be thrilled about the little things in life, he never judges anyone, and he's smart."   
  
"There was a time you knew for sure he was the biggest goof you'd ever come across," the voice reminded him.  
  
"He finds it important for people to think he's stupid," Ray said. "He doesn't want to raise expectations. In his own peculiar way, he's even more of a perfectionist than Fraser is."  
  
"Ah, yes, Fraser," the voice mused. "What about him?"  
  
Ray thought about this for a moment. Six months ago, he had been sure he'd need to cry a hundred buckets of tears before he would be capable of thinking about Fraser and not wince. It had turned out to be one and a half, tops.  
  
Of course, making a comparison between his divorce from Stella and his break-up with Fraser wasn't entirely fair. Ray had been with Stella for more than twenty years, as a boyfriend, as a lover, as a husband. He had been with Fraser for only two, as a partner and as a friend. He had dreamt about the boyfriend, the lover, and even the husband thing with the Mountie, sure, but he'd never really had it. So the loss of it had been only symbolic.   
  
(The friendship thing was different of course. That had been real, and Fraser had behaved like a complete jerk when he saw Ray to the airport in Yellowknife. But six months after that horrible goodbye, Ray no longer hated him for it. Fraser had probably thought he'd make things worse for Ray - and himself - if he acted more friendly. He hadn't wanted their friendship to be over. If Ray contacted him (with Buck Frobisher's help he might be able to find out where the Mountie was and get him to one of the three phones operating in the Northwest Territories), and told him he was over it - pointing out that he would never again ask Fraser for something he couldn't give - he'd probably hear the Mountie smile and say something like, "I'm glad, Ray. It means a lot to me to know that we are still friends.")  
  
When Stella announced she wanted out of the marriage, Ray had had nobody to turn to for support (except Stella herself, and he'd tried that, but it had only served to make matters worse). It had been two desperate and extremely lonely years before he joined the 27th police district and met with Benton Fraser.  
  
When Fraser told Ray to go back to Chicago, Turnbull had been there, needing aftercare. In his helplessness, Turnbull had been a great help to Ray. A big help. A six feet six tall, three feet three wide help, that had blocked everything else from Ray's sight, including Fraser.   
  
Ray had taken the care thing so bloody seriously, he could have given Florence fucking Nightingale a run for her money. It had started has a way of keeping his promise to Frannie, as a way to distract himself from thinking about Fraser. But at some point (pretty early on, he realized) it had become all about Turnbull. It had become important to provide the best care he could to the constable, because the guy deserved it.   
  
Turnbull's happiness was important to Ray, and he was willing to go at some length to add to it.  
  
"By buying him ridiculously expensive, remote controlled caterpillars," the voice in his head remarked.  
  
"Exactly," Ray nodded. Most of his inner voices were annoying little assholes persisting on giving him a hard time, but this one was very nice and understanding.  
  
"So let me see if I get this," it said. "First you were in love with Stella. Then you were in love with Fraser. And now you are in love with Turnbull." The voice sounded a bit skeptical, Ray noticed.  
  
"You have a problem with that?"   
  
Oh, no. Wrong move. Never piss off an inner voice. He should know that by now.  
  
"Not at all," the voice said sweetly. "I'm just surprised. I thought that to you love was all consuming. The Romeo and Juliet sort of thing. I can't imagine Turnbull being your Romeo. Or your Juliet for that matter. Can you?"  
  
Ray realized he couldn't. Stella had been his first and only love for twenty years. She had been his golden girl, his angel, his reason for being. He'd thought she was perfect. When the marriage seemed to have stopped working, he'd thought it was completely his fault.  
  
His feelings for Stella couldn't be repeated, obviously. Still, what he'd felt for Fraser came close. Fraser was the first guy he ever loved. In a different way, Fraser had been just as perfect as Stella, and Ray had been just as much in awe with him.  
  
Pedestals, Ray realized. Until recently, love had been about pedestals to him.   
  
But not anymore. Turnbull and pedestals didn't mix. For one thing, the guy would surely lose his balance when he was put on one, and crack his skull when he came down. For another, Turnbull wasn't perfect. Ray didn't need him to be perfect. Love wasn't just about adoration. Being in love didn't necessarily mean forking over part of one's self-esteem.  
  
"Ha," Ray said. "How about that?"  
  
"Ray," his inner voice replied proudly, "you might have become an adult at last."   
  
_10\. Turnbull needs a kick in the head_  
  
On Sunday, Ray thought long and hard before he bought flowers at the gas station. Wouldn't flowers be too clich? he wondered. Wouldn't Turnbull find them tacky? But his gut told him Turnbull loved flowers, and Ray bought the most colorful bunch he could get.  
  
Outside the building pressing the buzzer of Turnbull's apartment, he felt nervous. It was ridiculous.  
  
"Yes?" the constable's voice said through the intercom.  
  
"Turnbull, it's me." Fuck. Would the guy even be able to hear the words through the pounding of Ray's heart?  
  
Apparently so.   
  
"Hi, Ray!" The buzzer signaled immediately that Ray could open the outside door.  
  
He took the stairs faster than part of him wanted to, but Turnbull was already in the doorway when Ray arrived at the fourth floor.  
  
"Ray?" The constable sounded worried now, instead of surprised. "Is something wrong?"  
  
Shit. Ray was here to say some things that were supposed to make Turnbull happy, not cause him worry. Where the fuck was this nervousness coming from?  
  
"Everything is fine, Turnbull," he said. "I just got to tell you something. These are for you." He handed over the flowers.  
  
"Thank you kindly, Ray," Turnbull replied, stepping back to let him in. "They are lovely."  
  
Ray never would have thought that the constable could muster a searing look. But he could. It caused Ray to break out in sweat. Jesus. Apparently, even without pedestals being involved, it was impossible to be at ease when making a declaration of love.  
  
Turnbull went to put the flowers in a vase. When he came back, he softly said, "What is it you want to tell me, Ray?"  
  
Right. Take deep breath. Open mouth. Speak.  
  
"I realized that I'm in love with you," Ray said quickly.  
  
There was a long pause. A very long, nerve-wrecking pause. Finally, Turnbull said, "Ah."  
  
That was all.  
  
"What's the matter?" Ray asked.  
  
"I don't understand exactly what you mean by "being in love"," Turnbull replied.  
  
Oh, great. Apparently, the constable's fractured skull had healed with scars that had left it extra thick.   
  
On the plus side, annoyance now distracted Ray from his nervousness.  
  
"I don't know about Canadians, of course," he said, "but when an American guy tells you he's in love, he means to say he likes being with you, he's thinking a lot about you, and he likes to see you happy and to know he has something to do with it."  
  
"Ray..." Turnbull didn't look or sound happy at all. "I don't think..."  
  
He didn't continue. He just looked miserable. Ray wanted to comfort him. Put his arms around him. Kiss him. Make him smile. He knew that under the right circumstances, Turnbull could smile like nobody's business, and he really wanted to make that happen.   
  
On a more selfish level, he just wanted a taste of Turnbull's lips.  
  
"I'd like to kiss you," he said, stepping forward.  
  
Turnbull took a step back. "I think it's best if we don't get physically involved."  
  
"Why?"   
  
"I don't think I could take it if you'd leave me after we had been...intimate."   
  
Oh, goddammit.  
  
"Jesus, Turnbull. Do you really think I would buy you flowers and tell you I'm in love with you just to get you in the sack? This is not about some itch that needs scratching."   
  
For a moment, Ray feared that Turnbull would asked, "What itch?" but the constable was smarter than that, if only barely.  
  
"I know that, Ray," he said. "This is about Constable Fraser. I realize that I resemble him in some ways - even though I'm not half the man he is. I understand that I remind you of him, but I am not him, Ray. If we started an affair, I'd surely disappoint you. Before long, you'd become painfully aware that I am not Constable Fraser."  
  
Ray stared at him. This couldn't be true. He searched for clues that Turnbull was pulling his leg but couldn't find any. Of course not. Turnbull probably hadn't pulled anyone's leg. Ever.  
  
The guy really needed a kick in the head, and Ray's boots itched, but he figured that direct aggression would go lost on the constable, so he went for sarcasm instead.  
  
"Oh, I see. You think I still don't know the difference between the two of you. You think that if Fraser walked in right now, I'd offer him a glass of strawberry lemonade, nice and strong, and expect him to really like it. I'd suggest we'd watch "My best friends wedding" on video, because, as I would know of course, it's his favorite movie. And I'd witness him being absorbed in it and sad about the ending, because, even if he'd seen the movie about a dozen times before, he'd still be disappointed that Dermot Mulroney had picked Cameron Diaz instead of Julia Roberts - _again_. Then, to console him, I'd take him to the park, so he could play for hours with the remote controlled toy car I bought him. Finally, on the way home, I'd buy him pistachio ice cream, knowing that I'd really made his day."  
  
Ray glared at Turnbull - to catch his breath and to see if he got his point across.  
  
Turnbull blinked. Ray had seen people blink like that before - at the precinct, in the interrogation room, when they weren't so sure about their stories anymore. Suddenly, he wasn't a guy in love trying to make a declaration to another (and failing, goddammit), he was a detective grilling a suspect.  
  
"Are you still in love with me?" he asked.  
  
"Ray," Turnbull whispered. "Ray, please."  
  
"Are you?"  
  
More blinks. A sigh. "Yes. Yes, of course I am. I can't imagine ever loving anyone else, Ray."  
  
Okay. This might be Ray's window of opportunity.  
  
"So, you're a romantic guy," he said. "You think love only comes around once. That would explain why you have difficulty believing that I'm in love with you. After all, I was in love with Fraser before." Ray's tone was friendly. Suspects were often fooled by that tone.  
  
Turnbull seemed to relax a little. It was time to attack.  
  
"It's a load of crap, and you know it, don't you?" Ray said. "If you refuse to believe that I'm in love with you, you have to come up with a better reason than Fraser. If love only came around once, I wouldn't have fallen in love with him in the first place. I was married before, remember? I was with Stella for a total of twenty years, and if love was something people never recovered from, I'd still be depressed about her."  
  
Turnbull didn't move at first. Then he lifted his chin.   
  
Shit. Too early for Ray's victory dance.  
  
"I understand that in the end you did indeed get over your divorce from Attorney Kowalski, Ray," Turnbull said. "You met with Constable Fraser. He's a man who is easily admired and loved."  
  
Ray felt a sudden pang of jealousy at this.   
  
Turnbull shook his head. "Oh, no, Ray. Of course, the Constable was an RCMP legend when I was a recruit, and when I met him in the flesh upon my arrival in Chicago, obviously I was much impressed, but I never was...he wasn't...He's just not my type, Ray." A blush crept up to Turnbull's cheeks.  
  
Yeah, we all know who's your type, don't we? Ray thought. "Then what's the problem?" he said. "Why won't you let me kiss you?"  
  
"I don't think it would be wise for us to start a relationship, Ray. I think you are still in love with Constable Fraser," Turnbull managed to sound miserable and stubborn at the same time.  
  
"Okay, listen," Ray said, trying really, really hard to keep his voice patient. "Part of your doubt I can understand. I was in love with Fraser. If at the end of our trip in the Northwest Territories he had told me he wanted me, I wouldn't have returned to Chicago. But he didn't want me, so I had to move on. And I did. So why do you insist that I didn't?"  
  
"I don't think you're deliberately lying to me, Ray. I just think you're mistaken."  
  
Okay, now Ray was angry.  
  
"Let's see if I get this," he said. "You don't trust me. You're convinced that, despite me telling you otherwise, I'm actually still in love with Fraser, and settling for second best. Which is you, because you remind me of him. I'm pretty stupid apparently, because I'm thinking this could work. You, however, know better. You know for a fact that I'll be disappointed pretty soon, because you aren't Fraser."  
  
Ray was standing very close to Turnbull now. He had to crane his neck some to look at the guy's face. He didn't care.  
  
"Ray..."  
  
"Shut the fuck up." Ray was sick of Turnbull's "Rays". "Let me tell you something. If you're right, if I don't love you the way I should, it's not because you're not enough like Fraser, but because you are too much like him. God, you're such a stubborn, arrogant asshole."  
  
"Ray, please..."  
  
"Shut up." Ray took a step back. "If you can't accept that I'm in love with you, I have nothing more to say."  
  
At the door he turned. "This is not about me not knowing the difference between you and Fraser; this is about you being a coward. You think you have too much self-esteem to be satisfied with the crumbs of my affection - I think you just don't trust yourself to handle the real deal. I believe you're using Fraser as an excuse." With his hand on the doorknob, he said, "You have my phone number. Call me when you have decided which of us is right."   
  
_11\. Love is all_  
  
When Ray entered his apartment, the phone was already ringing. There wasn't a doubt in his mind who the caller was.  
  
"Yeah?" he barked into the receiver.  
  
"Ray, it's me," Turnbull said. "I'm so sorry."  
  
"Good start," Ray replied. "Go on."  
  
"You were right about...everything you said. I am a coward. I had hoped you'd be satisfied with us being friends. I felt reasonably confident that I could be a good friend to you, Ray. And I told myself that if I were to lose your friendship at some point in time, I'd be able to cope."  
  
A horrible thought occurred to Ray. Was Turnbull's love of the platonic variety?  
  
"What about the physical part?" he said. "Aren't you attracted to me? Don't you want to touch me?"  
  
There was a silence. A flabbergasted one, apparently.  
  
"God, Ray, of course I do!" Turnbull exclaimed. "You can't imagine how much. I have sufficient self-control, however." In a softer voice, he added, "And I have my fantasies at night."  
  
It was a confession, obviously, it wasn't meant as a turn-on, but Ray's skin started to tingle and he felt the fit of his jeans change.  
  
Tell me about them, he wanted to say. He didn't do it, of course. Turnbull wasn't ready for that sort of thing.   
  
"Wouldn't you want your fantasies to become reality?" Ray made sure his voice sounded friendly, and not demanding.  
  
"You know I'd rather not," Turnbull said softly.  
  
Ray suppressed a growl. Yeah, he knew. But he wasn't fucking willing to accept it. The constable had to make a choice. A tough one. One that he feared more than anything. Ray would not let him off the hook. He was prepared to accept the consequences of Turnbull's choice no matter what it turned out to be, and so should the constable.  
  
"Renfield, listen," he said. "I know you prefer to play it safe, but I can't do that. I don't believe in holding back. Not ever, but certainly not when it comes to love. I'm in love with you, and I can't be satisfied with your friendship. It's all or nothing for me. If you want me, you have to take all of me, even though it scares the shit out of you."  
  
Silence again.  
  
"I know, Ray," Turnbull said softly. "Would you please come over?"  
  
***  
  
It took Ray less than ten minutes to get back to Turnbull's apartment. He pressed the buzzer hard, and the door was opened immediately, so he could run upstairs almost in one continuous move.   
  
Turnbull was in the doorway. He didn't say a word, but he looked like he had been standing there waiting for Ray from the moment he'd put the phone down.  
  
They held gazes and the next thing Ray knew was that he was hauled inside, his lips were sealed with Turnbull's, and the constable somehow managed to shut the door without breaking the embrace or the kiss.  
  
Ray felt dizzy. From the lack of oxygen, from the blood that left his head to rush to his crotch, from relief, and from surprise.   
  
It took some time, but apparently, when Turnbull decided to leap he truly leaped.   
  
Bloody fucking hell.  
  
Turnbull's hands moved over Ray's body, as though it was something that needed to be explored and learnt urgently. His lips trailed over Ray's face. Then they were on Ray's mouth again, warm and strong, not tentative at all.   
  
Meeting Turnbull's tongue felt electric. Ray felt like a starving man who finally was being fed. He opened his mouth and let it be tongue-fucked. He had never been kissed like this before, not even by Stella. It was greatness.  
  
"Where did you learn to kiss like that?" he gasped, when he knew he had only two choices left: passing out or breaking the kiss.   
  
Turnbull looked confused. "I didn't...I just...I like to kiss you, Ray."   
  
Ray grinned. "That so? Good. Is there something else you'd like to do, Renfield?"  
  
"Yes," Turnbull put his hands on Ray's hips and pulled him close, pressing their crotches together.   
  
There was nothing left to be desired in the clarity department.  
  
Oh, man.  
  
***  
  
When Ray awoke, it was starting to get dark. He was hungry. He smiled to himself. With the amount of calories he's burnt and the proteins he had spilled this afternoon, it was no surprise.  
  
Some dinner would be welcome. With a bit of luck he'd find ingredients in the fridge that weren't too fancy to recognize and that he knew how to use to cook something that could pass for a meal.  
  
Very carefully - he didn't want to wake his peacefully snoring new lover - he tried to extricate himself from Turnbull's body.  
  
A vise clamped around his calf.   
  
"You're not leaving."  
  
Ray grinned. Renfield wasn't overruling his worst fear; he was stating a simple fact. Turnbull was learning fast, and Ray loved witnessing every minute of the progress he made.  
  
"I'm not leaving, I'm hungry," he said.  
  
Renfield opened his eyes and smiled blissfully. Then his face dropped. "For food?"  
  
Ray laughed. "Yes, hon. Very sorry. Empty stomach and all that."  
  
"You need dinner." Renfield released Ray's leg. He started gathering his clothes and put them on. Ray hated to see his body being covered like that. Maybe, in a few weeks or so, Renfield might feel comfortable to cook in the nude.  
  
Ray put on some clothes too.  
  
"A pity," Renfield said. "You are most beautiful when you're naked."  
  
"So are you."  
  
Renfield abandoned the task of tucking his shirt in. Instead, he used his hands to grab hold of Ray and push him down onto the bed. Ren's weight was nice. To be held like this was nice. Ray wasn't that hungry anyway.  
  
Renfield's fingers were combing Ray's hair. The feeling of them on his skull was sheer greatness. Who knew that Turnbull's fingertips would be such erotic devices?  
  
"I still can't believe you're mine," Renfield said.  
  
"I know." Ray opened his eyes. "But you're working on it and you're making good progress."  
  
"I've never been more terrified than I was this morning."   
  
"I know," Ray said, putting his arms around Turnbull's broad back. "I'm sorry. I was wrong about you. You're not a coward. You're extremely brave."  
  
"I have to be. You said all or nothing, Ray. I always thought I could live with nothing, but it's no longer true. So I have to take all. You leave me no choice."  
  
"Is it such hardship on you?"  
  
"It frightens me," Renfield whispered. "It feels as though it is something to which I have no right. It could be taken away from me any moment." He paused. "You could leave me, Ray."  
  
"I prefer to stay." Ray took Turnbull's head in his hands to hold his glare. "Do you get what I'm saying? I want to be with you. I love you. If you need time to get used to the idea, that's fine. But don't ever tell me that I don't know what I truly want."  
  
Renfield blinked a couple of times, but he didn't avert his eyes. "I won't," he said. "I love you, Ray."  
  
When Ray moved his hands to Turnbull's shoulders, Renfield lowered his head and started a trail of soft, slow, wet, maddening kisses down Ray's jaw and throat.   
  
"God, Renfield."  
  
"Yes, I know. You're hungry. For food. We need to make dinner."  
  
The trail came to a sudden halt and a sort of cold washed over Ray when Renfield stood from the bed, sweetly smiling down at him.  
  
Damn. The guy did this on purpose.   
  
Ray wanted to protest, but decided not to. Instead, he stood as well, grinning his most charming grin, and said, "Yeah, I'm starving."  
  
In the doorway, Renfield kissed Ray once firmly on the lips. "I love you, Ray," he stated. "I love you very, very much." Then he turned and walked to the kitchen.  
  
"I still love you, Ray," Stella had said - "I don't want to be married to you anymore," the message had been.  
  
"I do love you, Ray," Fraser had declared - "But I don't desire you," he had added.  
  
"I love you, Ray," Turnbull had said, a couple of dozen times since he'd pulled Ray over the doorstep this afternoon. He had stressed the words with happy smiles, plenty of very muches, and numerous hugs and kisses. Plus three truly amazing blow jobs. A few seconds ago, he'd said it again. Ray had never heard anyone sound more sincere.  
  
He smiled at Renfield's back as he followed him. He could live with love Turnbull style. For the rest of his life if he was lucky.  
  
END  
  


  
 

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End Close Encounter of the Third Kind by Marcella Polman 

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